


it's getting late to be travelling

by Jothowrote



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Terminal Illnesses, and all that kind of fun stuff, let's grow old and die together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 18:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jothowrote/pseuds/Jothowrote
Summary: The world is unexpectedly kind. Hank doesn't think he could survive losing the last good thing in his life, but luckily he doesn't have to.





	it's getting late to be travelling

**Author's Note:**

> TW: this is about terminal illness and death. It was kind of super depressing to write, but weirdly cathartic. Kind of prompted by those tumblr posts about how Cyberlife would be like Apple and make their products break after a few years to keep customers.
> 
> I am the most British person in the world so apologies for any discrepancies.
> 
> I'm so sorry about this, but misery loves company.

'You have multiple options - if we start you on chemotherapy-'

'How long do I have if I don't get treatment?' Hank interrupts.

The doctor looks up from her notes, frowning. 

'Well, we'd give you medication to help with the symptoms and pain regardless, but -'

'How long if I only take those, then?' Hank asks, irritable now. 

The doctor tucks a strand of mousy hair behind her ear, coughs into her hand.

'Well,' she says, 'looking at the size and placement of -'

'I don't need the details,' Hank says, holding up a hand. 'In fact, I'd rather not know. Just - how long, doc?'

She sighs.

'A year,' she says, 'roughly. But if you choose the chemo route, you could have at least two or three-'

'A year. Perfect. Fuckin' A,' Hank says, sighing. 'That's it for me, then, doc. Thanks for everything.' He leans across the desk and grabs her hand, shaking it decisively. She lets him manipulate her arm up and down as though in a daze.

'I don't understand,' she says. 'If it's money you're worried about, your retirement plan from the DPD is definitely good enough to cover several rounds of chemo.'

'It's not the money,' Hank says, chuckling slightly. 'Thanks but no thanks, doc - I'll take the pain meds, but that's all.'

'Are you sure?' 

'I've never been so sure of anything in my life,' Hank says, already halfway out the door. He tips her a wink before he leaves - she'd been one of the good ones, as doctors went. And god knows he'd seen enough of them over the years.

He leaves the hospital with a slight spring in his step and a whistle on his lips, even with the cancer sitting heavy and deadly in his liver. He still hates hospitals, hates the sickly sweet smell of anasthesia and disinfectant, the constant background noise of machines and pain.

He drives home still whistling.

The last of the winter snow is melting but he drives carefully anyway, taking the turns slowly and watching out for traffic. He reaches home without an incident, as he always does, and stomps the icy slush off his boots before opening the front door.

The house is dark and silent, but the heating is on. Hank rubs his cold hands together as he takes off and hangs up his coat, and his treacherous brain fills the silence with excitable barks.

But the hall remains devoid of slobbery St Bernards, and Hank walks unimpeded to the kitchen. The lights are off, but he finds his way unerringly to the fridge and digs out a beer. He cracks it with a strange kind of satisfaction - what damage could one beer do, now, if he was already on a time limit?

Hank wanders into the lounge, where the only light comes from a faintly whirling blue LED - Connor was charging still. His movement must have triggered Connor's sensors, because the android's fans begin to whirr loudly before his brown eyes slide open. He blinks, dazed, before looking up at Hank. Connor smiles that crooked smile - Hank's favourite - and his LED stills.

'You're back,' Connor says. 'How was your appointment?'

'Mixed,' Hank says, walking around the sofa, trailing his fingers across Connor's back as he goes, before sitting down on his side of the sofa.

'Mixed?' Connor frowns. 'What do you mean?'

'It's liver cancer, like we thought,' Hank says, shrugging. 'Stage three. They gave me some medication, I went on my way.'

'Hank.' Connor takes Hank's free hand. Connor's hand is cold and hard, the skin fading to white in patches, but Hank clutches it anyway.

'It's fine Connor. It's good,' he says, swigging his beer in an attempt to normalise the conversation. Connor frowns at it. 'Hey,' Hank says, 'it's not like it can kill me _more_.'

'It's terminal, then?'

'Two to three years with chemo, a year without. I told them thanks but no thanks.'

'You're not going for treatment?'

'I took the pills, didn't I? I'm not an idiot,' Hank says.

'Hank, if this is because-'

'It's not just that, Connor,' Hank says, blustering, 'I've made my peace with it. I don't want to spend the last years of my life sick as a dog and bald as an egg. I'd rather just have a good last year. And besides,' he says, '69 is a pretty good innings. David Bowie died at 69. Snape died at 69. I'm in good company.'

Connor looks down, apparently mollified, and Hank is astounded at the calibre of his own lie. Because, honestly, hearing he had a time limit of a year was the best news he'd had since Sumo died.

It hadn't been long after Sumo that Connor had started experiencing serious defects with his hardware. A few trips to Cyberlife later, and they knew the truth - Connor was only ever meant to have been a prototype, after all. His replacement, RK900, had already been built. Even androids new off the shelf didn't have a lifespan much longer than a pet - Cyberlife was a business, and no business ever became successful by flooding the market with eternal products.

Connor was not built to last.

That had been eight years ago.

With the help of Markus and his influence, and a healthy chunk of his savings and pension, Hank got Connor the best care he could manage. Some biocomponents could be replaced, prolonging his lifespan, though they had to be specically made - and as the technicians said, replacements were never quite the same. But the new laws on replacement parts for androids - colloquially called the 'Theseus' ship' laws - meant that there was only so much that could be done. Not to mention that the main hardware, the memory data and core processor that made Connor _Connor_ , couldn't be replaced.

The changes were slow but steady, and Hank could only watch as the outwardly young-looking man began to slow down.

First, Hank noticed that Connor needed to charge for a lot longer. In the early days, Connor always got up first. Now, he lies still and peaceful long after Hank drags his aging carcass into the shower. He took longer to process new information, longer to process sentences sometimes. Other times he would go vacant, staring into space, LED stuck in yellow and endlessly spinning. His skin would glitch, on and off, patches of white flickering across like liver spots and wrinkles on a human. His thirium leaked, sometimes, through the corroded metal and plastic of his joints.

Hank remembers the first time he'd heard Connor's internal fans. They'd been sitting on the sofa, watching a film, and there'd been a strange background whirring noise.

'Have I left the aircon on?' he had asked, frowning.

'No,' Connor had said, quietly, biting his lip. 'That's - that's me.'

Then, finally, that fateful trip to Cyberlife before Christmas, the news about 'irreversible corruption' and 'overworked internal systems.' Connor had been given around a year left to live before catastrophic system failure destroyed his core. 

Hank had held Connor's hand the whole way home, and when Connor had gone into stasis to charge, he'd gone outside and thrown their trash can to the ground in impotent rage, before collapsing into the snow to cry like he hadn't cried in decades.

Not since Cole.

He'd known, back then, that he wasn't strong enough to live through Connor's death. 

Now he didn't have to.

In the present, Connor's cold hands wrapped around his old, wrinkled ones. Connor was wearing Hank's favourite crooked smile, though his eyes were wet. Hank put his beer down to wipe Connor's tears away.

'So whaddya say?' Hank says, smiling. 'Wanna die with me?'

**

Connor tidies the kitchen slowly, his limbs stiff and unresponsive. He hates his body, now, hates how old and slow and ineffective it is. Hates how his artificial skin looks ragged and worn, how the silver-white parts of his chassis shine through like bone. Hates the sound of his internal fans whirring at full blast to stop his internals overheating. Hates the rough clanks and clicks from his joints.

There isn't much to clean, as neither he nor Hank had much energy to make a mess in the past week. It had been getting harder and harder for Hank to move around, and now he was pretty much bed-bound, Connor was the only one using the living rooms.

Connor fills a glass of water, grabs a metal straw, and slowly clanks his way back to the bedroom.

Hank is sitting up against the headboard, and seems to have gotten some strength back into his limbs. He takes the glass easily and sips, watching as Connor slowly climbs into bed beside him. 'Look at us,' Hank says, fondly. 'What a pair of useless old men.'

'Speak for yourself,' Connor says, grinning. It hurts to smile. 'I could still reconstruct a crime scene in under a second.'

'And burn yourself out, yeah,' Hank scoffs. He empties the glass and sighs, placing it on the bedside table with shaky hands.

'I didn't think I'd last this long,' he says, hands clasped over his belly, head tilted up to stare at the ceiling. 'I was ready to die twenty years ago. And then you came along and ruined all my plans.'

'I think you'll find you ruined my plans more thoroughly,' Connor says, fondly, curling up beside Hank and resting his head on Hank's warm chest. 

'We fucked each other's plans,' Hank agrees. 'Isn't it stupid? All I wanted then was to be dead. And now all I want is to have longer with you.'

Connor just hums. He hasn't told Hank - though he thinks that Hank already knows - but his time left has gone from days to hours. He'd organised his internal processes, reducing some to be practically nonexistent, to save on processing power, but even those few still running were causing him trouble. He'd kept his sight, though - and his hearing, and his touch. He didn't want to waste any moments with Hank.

He wants to say that he had lived the best possible life, with Hank and Sumo, and then just Hank. That he'd been given much more than he deserved. He wants to tell Hank how grateful he is. 'I love you,' he says, instead. He thinks Hank understands.

Hank cradles his head gently, the artifical skin flickering under the pressure. They kiss softly once, twice, Connor's sigh a crackle of static from his voice box.

'They better let you out of android heaven,' Hank says, 'or me an' Cole an' you'll have to make our own.'

Connor hums again. Speech is too hard. He personally thinks that there is no android heaven. There is likely nothing for him, nothing except infinite non-existence. But Hank will have Cole, if there is a heaven, and the memory of Connor.

Connor starts to wish - and then he stops. What he has is enough.

They kiss again, and curl up closer, and Hank drifts into sleep. Connor stays awake, one of his remaining processors closely monitoring Hank's vitals. He listens to Hank's breathing, and waits. At three in the morning, Hank's heart finally slows and he dies quietly and peacefully. Connor holds him close.

 _I hope you find Cole,_ he thinks, as he takes the self-imposed constraints off his processes. _I'll be right behind you, if I can follow you_.

Connor lets go.


End file.
